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As the light of the evening sun set across Washington DC, painting the city in hues of orange and gold, the world outside seemed to slow down, embracing the serene beauty of the twilight hour.
Streets buzzed with the quiet energy of people returning home, the distant laughter of children playing in the parks, and the gentle rustle of leaves in the cool, evening breeze.
Yet in a humble apartment, amidst the clutter of a lived-in life, Peter Asher, a man of 25 with a stubby beard, screamed out loud in frustration.
Defeated for the 50th time by Malenia Blade of Miquella, the words "You Died!" were mockingly plastered across his screen.
"Ah! Damn it, there was only a little more to go..." Peter sighed, his voice a mix of irritation and resignation.
He glanced out of his window, noting the shift from day to night with a sense of surprise.
"Oh! It's evening already."
The sudden, insistent ring of his phone broke the room's stillness.
Peter stood up, kicking aside the piles of takeout containers and trash that had accumulated over the week.
"I should really clean this place," he thought, as he rummaged through his messy bed to find his phone.
The caller ID displayed 'Mom', and with a sigh, Peter braced himself for the conversation ahead.
"Hello," Peter said, his voice carrying a hint of weariness that he hoped his mother wouldn't detect.
"Ah! So, how have you been?" his mom's voice came through the phone, warm and filled with the familiar concern that always made Peter feel both comforted and a bit suffocated.
"Fine," he replied, his voice tight.
"That's good, I have sent you this month's allowance," she informed him, her tone light but with an underlying note of responsibility.
"Thanks," Peter responded.
"Is everything at school alright? You sound weak," she probed further, her motherly intuition kicking in.
"No mom, everything's A-OK," Peter assured her, masking his frustration with a forced cheerfulness.
"That's good. Are you taking care of your health?" she continued.
"Yeah," he replied, his response brief, not wanting to delve into the realities of his less-than-ideal lifestyle.
"Don't play around too much, ok," she cautioned.
"Ok, mom," Peter responded.
"Study hard, ok, my little pookie bear," she said endearingly, her affectionate nickname for him making him feel both loved and slightly embarrassed.
"Thanks, mom," Peter said, quickly ending the call before she could sense his discomfort or delve any deeper. He placed the phone down, wrapping one hand over his head.
It was a lie, a carefully constructed facade that I'd maintained with an expert's skill.
I hadn't been to the university in months, maybe longer.
Reflecting back, it was three years ago when my journey started, moving from Silver Spring, MD to Washington DC for my studies.
Initially, everything about the city seemed dazzling and full of promise.
A new city, new faces, the exhilarating feeling of a fresh start, and even the hint of a new love lurking around the corner.
Yet, three months after my admission, when the first semester was halfway through, a stark realization hit me - I was utterly alone.
As I looked around, everyone had seamlessly formed their own cliques, their laughter and camaraderie echoing in the halls, a stark contrast to my solitude.
"Crap, crap, crap," I muttered to myself, a sense of panic setting in.
"I'm too slow. What do I do?" The overwhelming feeling of being an outsider gnawed at me, especially when I sat alone for meals, feeling the imaginary weight of everyone's laughter and judgment.
For the first year, despite this isolation, I still attended classes, driven by a sense of duty and the fear of the consequences of not graduating. I was diligent, taking notes and pretending that everything was normal. But during my second year, something shifted. It felt as though an invisible force was anchoring my feet, rendering me incapable of moving towards what I knew I needed to do. Since then, my days at the university ceased.
Three years passed in a blur of gaming and aimless flapping.
"I can't go on like this," I often thought to myself, feeling a sense of desperation creeping in.
"I need to do something, but what's the point now?"
In three years, one could discover love, embark on countless adventures, or undergo significant personal growth. Yet, what did I achieve in these three years? Absolutely nothing.
As I pondered my future, the inevitable confrontation with my mother loomed large in my mind.
"I'm screwed, absolutely screwed," I'd think, the anxiety of that impending revelation always present.
I lacked any special talent or skill that could easily pave my way to a career. The fear of what lay ahead, coupled with the knowledge of my wasted years, left me in a state of paralysis, a prisoner of my own making. What would become of me when the truth came out?
Peter sighed, closing Elden Ring with a sense of detachment.
He just wasn't in the mood for it. His attention shifted as a strange notification popped up on his screen:
CNN: Ash Ketchum has finally become a Pokémon Master.
He blinked, a small smile forming as a wave of nostalgia washed over him.
Pokémon had been a monumental part of his life growing up. He fondly recalled his first game, Pokémon Platinum, and how he used to religiously follow the Pokémon anime and even delve into the manga.
To Peter, Pokémon was more than just a pastime; it was an integral part of his childhood. His classmates and friends often called him "Ash," a nickname born from his love for Pokémon and his last name, Asher.
Throughout his childhood, this nickname was a badge of honor.
However, as he grew older, his passion for the anime waned, especially after the episode where Ash's Pikachu was defeated by Trip's Snivy.
That moment felt like a betrayal to Peter, diminishing all of Ash's past victories and efforts. The Sinnoh victories, the triumph over Paul, and even the battles against Darkrai and Latias - all seemed to lose their significance in the face of the anime's repetitive storytelling.
The frustration and disillusionment he felt that day led him to abandon his love for Pokémon anime.
The manga was enjoyable, but without the support to pursue that interest, it too fizzled out.
Even his excitement for the games dwindled after playing X and Y.
Now, reading through the CNN article about Ash Ketchum's triumph, Peter couldn't help but laugh at the irony. Here was Ash Ketchum, a character he once admired, achieving the ultimate goal, celebrated by fans worldwide. Meanwhile, he, Peter Asher, another "Ash," was surrounded by the debris of his own failures.
Staring at the image of Ash Ketchum holding the world champion's trophy, Peter mused, "I should have been like you." He pondered why he had given up so easily, why he hadn't persevered like the fictional character he once idolized.
"Why did one Ash succeed while the other failed?" he asked himself, his voice barely a whisper in the cluttered room.
The question hung in the air, unanswered.
_______________________________________
The chill of the night air was sharp against Peter's skin as he strolled down the sidewalk towards the convenience store.
His steps were mechanical, the familiar route requiring little thought.
As he walked, his gaze fell upon a small family – a girl riding gleefully on her father's shoulders, her laughter mingling with the night, her mother a little behind as they hurried in the opposite direction.
Peter paused, a sense of longing washing over him.
"Will I ever be able to have a family of my own?" he mused, the thought emerging unbidden.
Almost immediately, he snorted in derision.
"Who would want to be with a loser like me?" he thought.
He quickened his pace, eager to escape his own thoughts, and soon found himself inside the store. The mundane task of selecting a few items to eat did little to distract him from his earlier reflections. As he exited, the familiar ding of the door closing behind him returned him to the stillness of the night, a stillness he often found comforting.
His tranquility was interrupted by a glint in the bushes nearby.
Curiosity piqued, Peter approached and discovered an object that seemed almost out of place – a Pokeball.
He picked it up, examining its detailed craftsmanship.
It felt almost real in his hands.
"Did someone drop this?" he wondered, his mind briefly taken away from the burdens of his reality.
But as he held the Pokeball, his thoughts inevitably circled back to his own perceived failures.
"Why is the world reminding me of my failures?" he thought bitterly, referencing the recent BBC article about Ash Ketchum, and now this toy.
In a moment of defiance, he told himself, "If I were in Ash's place, I could have done everything he did, but better."
This thought, whether a genuine belief or a desperate attempt to boost his dwindling self-esteem, lingered in his mind. Was he consoling himself with the fact that Ash was just a fictional character and that in his shoes, he could have achieved greatness? Or was this just a cruel reminder of his own shortcomings, a mockery of the fact that he was the Ash who had failed?
With a sigh, Peter clicked the center button of the Pokeball. As it opened, a bright red light enveloped him, and in an instant, everything around him turned to black